Page 7 of Boyfriend From Hell
Somehow, we ended up on the couch—two wine bottles stolen from my stash of sadness drained, Supernatural playing in the background.
Apparently, the call to the landlord went straight to voicemail, and no locksmiths were available at eight o’clock at night.
Who knew? Gracie would be rolling over in her metaphoric grave if she could see me right now.
“So, are you going to tell me your name or are you just going to sit there and drink all of my wine?” I asked to fill the silence.
He chuckled and took a sip from his glass. “Raios.”
“Raios?” I repeated.
“And yours?” he asked, tilting his head.
Those scarlet eyes caressed their way across my face, lingering on my lips for a moment.
“Deer,” I stated, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Deer?”
His brows pulled together, and he had no reason to look so hot making such a simple expression.
“Like the animal?”
A nervous laugh bubbled from me and I nodded, taking a sip.
He smiled and I couldn’t help but stare, despite his… uhm off-putting contact lens choices, he was hot. Drop dead gorgeous, really.
“And what is it that you do for work, Deer?” He tilted his head the other way as if I were the most interesting thing in the world and flashed me a line of perfectly white teeth.
Oh, so we’re really doing this whole small-talk-get-to-know-each other thing.
I wet my lips, suppressing the impulsive urge to recoil. That has always been my least favorite question.
“Oh, I uh, write,” I said, avoiding his warm stare.
It always felt so weird saying that out loud, people either thought it was the coolest thing on the planet or they thought it was…
well, they usually had some condescending shit to say, to put it lightly.
Followed by the ever-famous question of ‘have you written anything I’ve heard of?
’ to which the answer was usually a sobering no.
“You?” I asked quickly, hoping to turn the attention onto him and away from my life as an aspiring author.
He gazed into the mouth of his cup as if it held the answer to my question.
“Management of sorts. Mainly just watching over people and making sure everyone's pulling their weight.” He shrugged. “I’m lined up for a big promotion, I don’t necessarily want it, but I’m expected to take it.”
“Shitty, condescending boss?”
He took a sip and huffed. “Something like that.”
There was a brief pause, as if the conversation had been decapitated by my returned curiosity, and I mentally kicked myself in the ass.
“So, tell me Deer. What made today such a ‘shit day’ as you say?” he asked, as he lazily ran his fingers through his hair, pinning me with his crimson stare.
I chewed my bottom lip. I didn’t want to tell him my boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—practically ghosted me on my birthday—correction, for the last few years semi-consistently and it was becoming more and more apparent as to how little he had ever actually cared about me.
Or, how I had moved here six months ago and still hadn’t unpacked.
Or that I had a looming self-imposed deadline for my current manuscript, which I wasn’t even close to on track to meeting.
Now that would be a buzzkill.